


put me over your knee

by blueincandescence



Series: all's fair in love and cold war [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fill, Spanking, basically angst that degenerates into fluff, because i am trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/pseuds/blueincandescence
Summary: When Gaby’s bad calls jeopardize a mission, Illya covers for her despite his obvious anger. No other outlet for her guilt, she goads him into making good on that threat he made her their first night in Rome.





	

PRAGUE, FEBRUARY 1964

Gaby prowls the hotel suite. Gold brocade, brass fixtures, jewel-toned draperies. Only by their color can she tell where she is. Were they sapphire she would be a wife in Cologne or amethyst then a beloved sister in Versailles. The mistress in Prague sneers at ruby drapes and takes a long swallow. Vodka sloshes over a crystal rim to dribble down scraped knuckles and into loose, dripping hair. She took a bottle with her to the shower and did not set it down even to dry herself. The soaked through chemise she slipped into one-handed, her most convincing performance as a mistress to date. Patches of the plush carpet are still damp between her flexing toes. Prowling hotel suites is a honed skill and, after tonight’s disastrous showing at the warehouse, the only of her specialisms Agent Gabriella Teller can boast with any honesty.

Cutting across the sitting room, Gaby treads on top of a long, cushioned ottoman on her way back to the bar. The best she can say of her endless hours in wait is that they have all been well lubricated. The bracing metallic spin of the bottle cap grits against a bubbly pop cover she has heard four times in one hour. She put on the radio the moment she stomped through the door under some delusion that it would chase away the silence stabbing at her nerves. Even drink has barely dulled them. Closing her eyes is all it takes to return her to that dim, oppressive silence.

No banter in the car ride fleeing the warehouse. From the back, Solo, his inveterate composure stretched to a thin veneer, had started to demand an explanation. Gaby, marooned by her exile from the driver’s seat, was ready to defend herself spit and fire. Illya, whose hands shook the wheel with the force of the ice storm raging inside of him, told Solo to shut up. Silence fell. No one to fight but her own better judgment, Gaby lost. The disaster was her fault. She made a bad call. Confession had tugged at her tongue, but the silence weighed heavier.

Gaby fills her glass three fingers worth. It had not been one bad call but a whole series; the suite is too small for her to have outpaced her mistakes. She has catalogued each one and cross-referenced them with the mission reports she swallowed whole on the train ride from Vienna. No exoneration. At least three men are dead, but they are the lesser of the evils she caused compared to the one that got away.

At the check-in point, Illya reported a complication to Waverly. On the next breath, he said a piece of the intelligence was bad — an unrelated truth used for deflection, turning it into a lie of omission. Illya lied to a superior officer. Gaby had openly gaped at him, hunched around one of the iced-over bank of payphones. He met her eyes only long enough to bestow on her a terse nod, then looked away, turned his back to finish the short debrief. The sear of her glare should have set him alight, but he blew by her like a frigid wind.

Before she could confront him, Solo had pulled up in a taxicab Gaby could have stolen had they tasked her to, had she thought of it. Instinct, foresight. On a better mission, Solo had called her a natural. On their first, she had outsmarted them both. Gaby tried to hold onto that as she slammed a backseat door. To say that Illya sat next to her would be generous; he crowded against the window. She fumed in the distance, the silence and wrestled with her anger, her need to confess. The hand she set between them was an offering that Illya, his own jammed into the crooks of his elbows, pretended not to notice.

Instead, he broke the silence with reassurances. A setback only. Unfortunate. Ill-timed. But mistakes were part of being an agent. She would learn from them. Solo stared at her hard in the rearview mirror to ensure, Gaby thinks, that she wasn’t buying Illya’s gallant excuses. They were platitudes as empty as her hand, curled by the end of his string of nonsense into a fist.

Her partners left her in back of the hotel and drove off to track down the man she’d let escape and finish the job without her. She had watched the receding taillights, an ache hollowing out the pit of her stomach.

The excuses, the lies choke her worse than the silence; she has to open her throat to swallow around them. They set her bad decisions apart from the dozens the boys have made in the short months she has worked with them. How many times has she driven them out of spots they have tightened themselves without so much as a token explanation? Excuses, lies mark her bad decisions as more than reckless, more than prideful — incompetent.

The muffled sound of metal catching causes Gaby to whirl around. Illya has come in without her notice and is locking them in for the night. Her head swims for the adrenaline, the vodka. Illya drags off his flat cap and shrugs out of his Harrington jacket. The movement carries the same sense of déjà vu as the room’s stately, forgettable paintings. It is the cold that sweeps in with him setting her on edge. He toes out of his boots and socks and sheds his turtleneck, too. Bloodstains, she guesses.

“Did you get him?” That, too, is routine, but her voice is thick with the question.

Another curt nod. He busies himself gathering up the mission reports she has strewn about, returning them to their hiding place among tedious specs for computer technology. No reprimand. Just silence set to a crooning love song. Four men are dead, maybe more. Her fault and Illya’s doing; where subterfuge has failed the act of killing has tended to fall on his stalwart shoulders. Illya places the computer disc inside his briefcase, lead-lined and combination protected and bugged to high heaven. World War III averted again.

Gaby drinks to that. When she lowers the glass, Illya is staring at the near-empty bottle beside her on the bar.

“I’d hoped you’d gone to bed.” There are shards to him. One of them is pity.

She turns to pull down another glass, attention darting to the massive four-poster in the other room. He would have found her sprawled in the middle of the mattress, the size of which meant even his two meters could have crowded an edge to avoid her.

Breaking the seal on a bottle of blended scotch whiskey, she asks, “You spoke to HQ again?”

“We leave tomorrow.”

“For London?”

“Bucharest.” He sounds reluctant.

What to think but that her incompetence has had repercussions? Pouring two glasses, she braves the chill to approach Illya. And he does look almost approachable in his bare feet and white undershirt. His hair is even a little tousled. “This mission is over, yes?”

Illya accepts the drink. “Tomorrow is a new day.” Platitudes. He swallows a gulp, baring his teeth for the burn.

When they are celebrating mission accomplished, he sips and savors. Lets his eyes rove her contours openly. The glass clanks against her teeth. Has he even looked at her yet?

“You lied to Waverly.” She pitches her recrimination sharp to poke the bear.

He swirls the amber liquid, glaring like the taste is off. Bitter. “It does not matter.”

“It is — ” She steps into his charged space. “Unprofessional.”

She has made herself unavoidable. He has to look. Gaby knows her damp hair is wild, her makeup smudged. The chemise is nearly transparent in this light, more than enough to tempt him when they arrived three nights back, before the mission demanded their every waking hour.

“That has often become the case.” Illya swallows the part where he blames her, distaste for the scotch screwing up his face.

Wrenching the glass out of his hand, she drinks it down for him. Gaby takes both glasses with her to the radio, toppling his chess pieces in her wake. She is clumsy; a live wire writhes underneath her skin. The song playing is one she does not care for. The volume gets turned up for Illya’s wince on behalf of other people’s ears.

She is inconsiderate, unprofessional. Incompetent. Still he is silent.

Leaving his empty glass next to the radio, she carries hers with her over the ottoman to cut him off on his way to the bedroom. Gaby feigns with his change in direction, dimpled.

He admitted to her — weeks back, when they had admitted everything — that she warmed him doing this in Rome. He said he often thought of her dimples in the long, fraught weeks after. He thought of her weight on his chest, too, the strength of her arms pinning him down. That admittance had taken more coaxing.

Illya does not look warmed by her antics now. His hands are steady but the air around him quakes with frustration. “Turn that off. I’m going to bed.”

Smile wide, brittle, Gaby dances toward him. He takes a step back, then another. If he wants to get past her, he’ll have to lay hands on her. “We had plans to celebrate, didn’t we?” Hips rolling, she spins to hide a grimace and loses her balance. She teeters into his chest. He moves as if to catch her but stops when she steadies herself by stretching flat against the length of his rigid torso. Eyelashes fluttering, she mewls, “Neither of us are tired.”

Illya looks down on her without the barest incline of his chin. “I am tired.”

Gaby elbows him when she chases the sting of rejection with a burning gulp. This thing between them, whatever it is or could ever be, has been built on rejection — poor circumstances, bad timing, miscommunication, fear. It is unstable, easily upended.

Illya takes her empty glass from her and, under the pretense of polite care, puts half the length of the room between them. “We have a long day tomorrow.” He pauses in his task of putting away bottles. “But very manageable. Budapest is just precaution.” So considerate of her feelings — so deaf to them.

It is nothing to tap the anger, accusation he is barely containing and redirect it. “Mein Gott, stop making excuses!” Gaby stalks him to the bar. “Just admit you’re angry with me,” she says through a nasty smile, and his expression goes on pain-of-torture lockdown. They are toe to toe again, his back against the bar. Craning toward his ear, she hisses, “You won’t even touch me.”

Illya’s reaction flits across his face too quickly to pin down. Had he shown her his anger? Or his guilt? His cool hands engulf her face, thumbs tracing under her cheekbones. “It has been a long night,” is all he concedes. Some of the ice melts from his gaze. “Come. We go to bed.”

Part of Gaby wants nothing more than to curl up in his reassurances. But platitudes still rankle when she can tilt into his touch. And, alcohol buzzing under her skin, she’s never been able to resist prodding the pressure points of Illya’s temper. Her survivor’s logic — better to provoke him on the attack than be blindsided when she’s weak for him.

“We aren’t tired.” She takes his wrists to shake in the rhythm of that pop song come around again. She mouths along, “‘Shake it up, baby.’”

He lets her do what she likes with his arms, body stockstill and eyes roving. They fall on her nipples, straining against the thin chemise. Illya twirls her slowly, hand trailing the satin over her ribs. “Okay,” he says, having performed his assessment and concluded a change of tactics is necessary. “I take you to bed.”

Lip curled, she mocks his objective tone: “Is better for the mission.” Knocking his hands off of her, she backs toward the couch. He vents a tiny portion of his frustration through his rolling eyes. Good. Gaby drapes herself along the cushions. “You must realize I am in a very contrary mood.” She blinks up at him, gaining courage from the slight blur behind her lashes. “You must have a strategy in mind."

“Four phases.” He comes over to brace himself on the back of the couch and leans in. “And contingency plan.”

“Just one?” She tuts.

That earns a pressed smile. His fingers capture her chin. “You will concede I have experience in this.” Holding her there, he adjusts himself to arc over her, knee coming to settle between her hip and the back of the couch. Illya breathes over her lips.

The drawn out pace of his airy kisses and chastely stroking fingers clash with her nipping teeth and groping hands. He harrumphs in consternation when she stretches the neck of his t-shirt trying to strip it off him but takes over the task, letting her get at his skin. With pressure set to bruise, she tries to figure out what she needs to fill the hollow in her, tries to tempt Illya to figure it out for her. She is bare beneath her chemise, anxious for friction, but she cannot urge his hand lower than her hip. For each of her bold touches, Illya only gentles. Methodical, detached.

A resentful sigh carries the back of her head down to rest. He soothes her pulse point while he rolls her nipple, sending slow shivers through her. Thinking her subdued, he seems to be moving on to phase two. Her fingernails sweeping delicate circles over the textured expanse of his shoulders, she settles on a new line of attack. Gaby murmurs, “I concede. You are, after all, the more experienced agent.”

No fool, Illya breaks contact to search her face. Cautiously, he tries to settle the matter: “Even I make mistake.” Tries to lighten her with a smug turn of his lips. “From time to time.”

Gaby strokes his bristly cheek. Tests it with a pat. “I failed the mission.”

“It was not your fault.”

The out and out lie sends a shockwave that reverberates from her elbow to her palm. The slap lands on his cheek with a force of real, raw anger. Illya reels off of her, the couch. Ice shards meet her molten glare. In the washed lighting, his right cheek stands out a lovely shade of red.

Gaby tingles all over for the mark. “I told you to stop making excuses for me,” she says, words coming out thick and husky. Her breath catches at the naked anger working his jaw, the chance of retaliation.

But he takes his seething over to the radio, where he jerks the cord out of the wall in a careless movement that sends the mahogany box thudding to the carpet. In the silence, Gaby knows with shocking clarity that what she needs to fill the hollow is to be handled with such brutal honesty.

There is a gulf between knowing and doing, a tightrope to cross it.

Illya is growling to himself in the choked consonants of his native tongue — “ _Insane woman_.” An ache throbs at the realization that Illya is gathering his shirt, shoes, and coat, at the thought of those receding taillights.

Fear makes Gaby surge forward on wobbling legs. “Where are you going?”

“You will feel better in the morning.”

“So you are angry.” She plants herself between his staying and his leaving her.  

He stops short, an arm’s length away. He is iced-over, contained once more, but the storm is raging underneath. “You get your wish. Congratulations.”

“Coward,” she accuses, shoving his hard abdomen. “Liar.” She hauls back to slap him again, but he drops his bundle to seize her elbow, then takes charge of the other. Against the strength of his fingers, she is fighting a vice.

“I lied for you,” Illya grits out. “I think maybe you learn better if Cowboy and I are kind.”

“I am your partner! To hell with your kindness,” Gaby spits. “And to hell with your pitiful kisses, they disgust me — ”

Illya hauls her to him and punishes her mouth with his tongue. Clinging to his chest, she tries to match his outburst stroke for stroke. But when he hoists under her thighs it is all she can do to ride out the onslaught. Her legs wrap him low, pressed to the blunt leather of his belt. The metal buckle digs into the naked crease of her thigh.

His grip keeps shifting, tightening. Her back connects with the door, knocking a breath out of her. The support and the strength of her thighs frees up his hands to claim more of her. At this heady angle, the edge of his buckle slips over her slickened folds. Acute pain shoots from her core to her throat, makes her issue a sharp cry that Illya answers with a groan he muffles in the crook of her neck. He stills save for his panting breaths. She locks him to her at his nape.

Illya murmurs something she makes out as, “ _What are you doing to me_?” and something else. Some kind of denial, an unfamiliar Russian word he tells himself he is not. He is remorseful, unduly so.

Gaby kisses his temple, searching for the words that will possess him to bruise her lips again. She traces over his scar with the tip of her tongue. “If I were in the KGB, and I failed the mission like I did tonight —  ” Her lips brush the shell of his ear. “How would I be disciplined?”

Huffing his distaste, Illya fights her grip to set her down. Out of pique, he smacks her bared ass. 

Her legs lose purchase on his hips, jolted by dueling flares of indignation and gratification. Gaby, upright by the grace of the door, could sink into the carpet, into a pool of red-hot embarrassment. Illya spanked her like an unruly child. She should punch him. But her thighs are slick and her head is sparking.

“You are drunk.” Illya bites off the pronouncement, tone suggesting it is the politest descriptor he can muster.

Her hair rustles against the door when she nods. Illya has offered her so many means of escape tonight; she could pass out right now, pretend not to remember her shameful behavior in the morning. He would tuck her in, pretend with her. But he would remember. Whenever he was angry with her, he would think of her like this: base and cruel, a mean drunk. A bad partner.

Gaby doesn’t want him kind. She wants Illya complicit.

“I am drunk,” she agrees. Reaching out, she hooks her fingers behind his belt buckle just above the pronounced bulge tenting his dark slacks. “What’s your excuse?” She drags her eyes up the rigid planes of his broad chest, muscles straining with rise and fall. Gaby deflects his offended scowl with a smirk.

Each word thick with a threat he would never carry through unless she makes him, Illya orders, “Go to bed.”

“Or what?” Her voice and hands shake for the thrill of the tightrope and, yes, liquid courage. She undoes the buckle and slides leather through loops. Holds the belt up to taunt him.

Face contorted in disgust, Illya flings the belt across the room.

“Or what?” Gaby glides her fingers down his wrists. His knuckles are more scraped than hers are, raw from the violence her bad calls forced him into. She kisses the back of each hand for the relief she knows the violence gave him despite his efforts at control. Illya peers down at her in strained confusion now, lets her guide his palms to rest on the small of her back. Gaby strokes his hands over satin curved and heated by her bottom. Sotto-voiced, she repeats, “Or what?”

Comprehension parts his lips, sticky at the corners. He kneads her ass cheeks, urging her close enough to feel the compressed line of his erection against her electrified stomach. Still, he hesitates.

Makes her beg: “Or what?”

From deep in his chest, he growls, “Or I will put you over my knee,” and seals his mouth over hers.

Gaby savors the promise on his tongue, sinks her teeth into his bottom lip to help him keep it. “You wouldn’t dare.”

With a grunt, Illya clamps a hand around her bicep and tugs her further into the sitting room. His weight sinking onto the ottoman, he drags her across his wide-set knees.

Gaby wrenches to test his hold; one forearm across her back is enough to keep her down in this humiliating position. She lashes out, earning her first proper spank, the flat of Illya’s hand coming down against satin with a muffled smack.

She starts for the jolt. Sighs for the hot pressure wedged between her arm and side. Illya soothes the satin over her backside in slow circles. Twisting, Illya’s profile comes into view. His puckered concentration as he strokes along the curves of her cheeks warms her voice. “Big talk.” She wriggles.

Her second spank is heated by eye contact, the conflict stirring behind those slivers of blue. Illya palms her ass, lets her twist up further to see the length and breadth of his right hand spanning from the ruched hem of her chemise to the dimple of fabric where her cheeks meet. Hem shoved to her waist, her third and fourth spanks echo, skin on skin.

Her teeth sink into her lip. Better but not enough. Gaby wriggles again under Illya’s massive paw. “What are you afraid of?” she complains.

Illya winds up a few centimeters for her next spank, giving it enough heft to send her top half back over his knees. The bright burst is good, good enough to tease something brighter and hotter for them both if they can get each other there.

“Are you afraid of hurting me?” Gaby sinks her teeth into the thick wool covering the side of his thigh. Illya curses, intent enough in his reflexive slap to illicit a sharp whine from her. Her whine lowers into a moan when his cock jumps against her ribcage. “Or liking it?”

Illya sucks in a breath, holds it with abdominal muscles gone rigid. Shame is as much a part of him as pride; he is a storm of clashing dualities: shame and pride, obedience and self-rule, gentleness and violence. Gaby cannot help but strive to master all sides. Her survivor’s logic.

“It’s okay,” she soothes. Gaby arches up on her toes and elbows so she can cup strained fabric between her hands, petite and delicate set against every part of him. “You wouldn’t like it if I didn’t.” Her nimble fingers find the zipper and lower it as carefully as Illya shudders out his held breath. The one to dole out excuses now, power surges through Gaby at the loosening of Illya’s muscles, the gratitude of the open-mouthed kiss he drags her in for.

Legs falling on either side of his knees, she rocks against the thin cotton separating her from the undeniable proof of Illya’s complicity. One of his hands tangles in her hair and the other lifts the chemise in search of the tender spots on her ass. The roll of her hips becomes frenetic, friction defusing her resolve to see this new want through for the sake of immediate relief from the tension radiating at her center. Gaby finds the head of Illya’s cock, lined by fabric, and stands on her toes to rub it along her ready entrance.

Illya breaks the kiss off and, despite her mewling protest, deposits her on the ottoman. He strips off his pants and briefs, freeing the long, thick line of his cock. It sways heavily as Illya sits. Heedless of the huff he lets out when the weight of her knee digs into his thigh, Gaby attempts to crawl back onto his lap.

He stops her short by the waist, spanks her with a hand that comes to silence her yelp, one finger on her lips. “Impatience is what got you here.” The reprimand in Illya’s tone heats her with a different sort of flush. For a moment, she is back behind the wheel of the getaway car, watching the minutes crawl by through a narrowing field of vision. Mounting impatience had spurred her to leave the warmth of the car, to make bad call number one.

Chin up, Gaby wraps her fingers around Illya’s cock, thumb pressed into the cleft under his sensitive head. Off his half-lidded moan, she smirks, “Let’s see how patient you can be.”

Illya thrusts into her fist. Blowing out a steadying breath, he manages, “You are working against your own self-interest to prove a point.”

Part for the patronizing, part because he is right, Gaby squeezes Illya hard enough to still his thrusts. The noise he lets out from under his curled lip makes her do it twice. In the space of a gasp, she is back over his knees, this time her wrenching doing nothing against the strength of his restraining arm.

“When you left the car, you did so to prove a point.” Illya skims up the chemise along her side to claim a hanging breast. “What was it?”

Gaby fights his grip, reddening for the question, the obvious answer: she left to prove her partners needed her only to prove without a doubt that they did not. Obvious as it may be, she’ll be damned before she admits it.

“You risked the mission — ” A sudden sting shoots through her. “Your reputation for sense — ” Another sting, sharper. “And your life — ” Illya’s palm comes down on her left cheek, the surprising vehemence jerking a groan out of her. “For what?”

“Boredom,” she shrugs, braced already for the shock of indignation and the wave of gratification that follows.

“Ego,” Illya corrects, hand covering the hot mark that last spank left on her skin. “Agents are trained, as you must be trained. Takes time, sacrifice. You are impatient, take this as insult. This is where you go wrong. You will concede?”

Gaby tries to push up for some dignity, but he stubbornly keeps her prone. “Is this an interrogation?” she grouses.

Illya’s blunt nails scrape up and down the backs of her thighs, intensifying the tremor. “You won’t learn by kindness. Perhaps this will be effective.” Temper simmering, she writhes to remind him how vulnerable his balls are in this position. Illya smacks her bottom again and locks her in place. “Concede.”

She asks in a dangerously sweet tone, “Is spanking an official training method of KGB perverts or your own invention?”

A laugh barks out of Illya. “I am pervert?” He scoots her up, so her ass vees up over his lap. His breath tingles as he leans in to inspect her. Locking her gapped thighs together does nothing to hide the evidence of her arousal. The low rumble of his voice — “I have never seen you wetter” — erupts her sticky skin into gooseflesh. She tenses in anticipation of him parting her dripping folds with his fingers or, mein Gott, his tongue.

The spank comes out of nowhere, eliciting a full-body clench. Illya makes a low noise of discovery, fingertip brushing the spasming muscles at her entrance. She strains to meet his retreating hand.

“Where did you go wrong?” It’s an admirable attempt at authority, but he is breathless and his cock is hot and heavy where it leans on her arm.

“Rome,” she answers, spiteful of his ability to resist her. That earns another flash of gratification but nothing to ease the want it leaves behind.

Boiling with frustration, Gaby gives in to what he said about working against her own self-interest. He implied she is prideful, impatient, reckless, green. Not incompetent. Angry as he was, he never stopped thinking she is worth training — a giddy relief. 

Still it costs her something to admit, “I concede.” She yelps when his hand comes down on her ass cheek. Moans when he strokes a finger between her folds and builds a rhythm.

He removes his touch, ruthless. “What else?”

Teeth sunk in her bottom lip, she grits out, “Geh zur Hölle!”

Three blows land on her cheek in quick, stinging succession. Gaby’s knees fall apart, cunt wide open and grasping. He parts her for a better view, but he does not touch her clit.

“I left the car running. I didn’t think — ” She swallows thickly. Like a farce, the fourth man got away in their getaway car. Her face burns for more than the blood and the frustration churning through her. Illya kneads and pulls at her flesh, coaxing her on. “I did have a plan.” Earns another whack. She gripes, “I didn’t claim it was a good one.”

Illya snorts. One finger works around her slick hole, drawing up to touch her clit, making her jerk like he’s slapped her again. Gaby groans his name, wiggles to encourage him. “And?” Illya is rough, impatient, too.

She rubs against his hand, the external contact nowhere near enough. “I came in, I saw the standoff — ” Solo, crouched behind crates of computer parts, trading insults, while Illya lurked in the shadows, waiting to gain the upperhand. “One of them was moments from spotting you.” She remembers the burst of panic. “So I fired.”

“You didn’t take time to assess.” One smack. “And you missed.” One smack more. Gaby winces, takes it. Doesn’t protest his criticism or the sparks behind her lids. She loses all thought when Illya shoves a finger inside her pulsing cunt and strokes.

“I was stubborn,” she adds greedily. Two smacks and a second finger slides in beside the first. On her toes, she pushes for leverage to meet his in and out.

Gaby starts babbling then, giving him a play-by-play confession of her bad calls in the warehouse — ignoring Solo’s order to go back to the car, wasting her bullets, getting into a fistfight when she was meant to be watching the exits — while Illya spanks her with one hand and finger fucks her with the other. Gaby wriggles and squirms and cranes into the flurry of hard smacks that echo the room.

His fingers curl inside of her, hitting the electric spot that makes her muscles quake. She starts begging then, hot pain and frustration filling her screwed-up eyes with stinging moisture. “Please,” she gasps. Her body burns with need. The apology she has been holding in since the oppressive silence of the car choked her words sobs out of her — “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please.” Grunting his effort, Illya maintains the rhythm she demands while stroking her clit. “Please, Illya!”

Flashes of white-hot pleasure set her off spasming and moaning. One last hard spank, and light explodes behind her lids.

Gaby hangs over Illya’s knees, every bit of her body buzzing. She groans for the loss of Illya’s fingers inside her still-spasming cunt. Above the sound of both their labored breathing, she moans for a sucking noise — pictures Illya licking the taste of her cum off his fingers. Her side is heated by his neglected cock, pressed between them, bright red and weeping.

Hum appreciative, Gaby asks, “Is that what my bottom looks like?”

Illya closes his eyes tight, nods.

Though her legs are shaking and her body aches, Gaby stands up from his lap to kneel on the narrow length of the ottoman.

From over her shoulder, she sees him, wincing, throw a leg over to straddle the ottoman. Taking hold of her ass, he tugs her hips back to meet his mouth. His tongue stabs past her swollen folds with an avidity that makes her spine arch in surprise. The sounds of his stroking tongue and her gasping pleasure are joined by Illya’s hand pulling on his cock.

“Don’t come like that,” she orders huskily.

Illya’s frustrated growl shoots right through her, making her moan and laugh.

“You think I’m cruel,” she accuses. “But I was trying to be kind.” She finishes backing up, feet touching down on either side of the ottoman. She teases the head of his cock with her wet slit.

Sensitive, Illya groans against her spine as he lowers her in increments. Gaby is more than willing to go slow, savor the stretch. When she is full up with his hard heat, she lets her head fall back onto his shoulder. He thrusts slowly, pulling out only a fraction. His hand comes around to tilt her chin so they can kiss, his lips glossy and tasting of her slick.

Thrusts getting deeper, Gaby shifts to stretch out on the ottoman. She wiggles for him. “Are your marks still there?”

“Da,” he chokes out, one hand flexing over an especially tender spot. “You will feel them tomorrow. Maybe longer.” Regret for that but not remorse.

“Good.”

Illya groans for the satisfaction in her voice. Both hands gripping her ass and hips, he speeds up. She sets her teeth and powers through soreness, inner muscles suctioning around his pistoning cock.

He lasts longer than any man ought to — a combination of his trained stamina and sheer stubbornness. One hand has snaked between them to roll her clit. He is rougher than before, his tactician’s mind betting on her body responding quicker to the pain-pleasure stimulus. And he’s right, the bastard, he’s so right. Tears of frustration sting her eyes harder than before.

She comes with a sharp whine, hot shivers weakening her tremor-wracked legs. Illya pulls out of her too-sensitive cunt when she cannot hold in her whimpers any longer. He kneads her flesh with one hand and strokes himself with the other. Halfway hanging off the ottoman and blurry-eyed, Gaby watches what she can see of his face, intent on her still-pulsing cunt, contort with relief as he comes, jerking and roaring. Spurts of warm wetness splash on her ass, between her cheeks.

After he is finished, Illya spreads his cum over her raw skin like a salve. Her KGB pervert, Gaby thinks, a fond warmth mingling with the tingling pain heating her ass.

She could puddle to the floor, but Illya helps her turn, adjusts her carefully in his lap to cradle her in his arms. The wetness gathered in the corners of her eyes spills over for the change in position. Gaby, subdued and sated, smiles up at Illya through sticky lashes. “Are you angry with me anymore?”

“Ptichka.” She is his little bird again, so soon after pushing him into degeneration. Illya’s expression is impossibly tender wiping away her tears. Her eyes flutter shut under his stroking hands, and she nuzzles into the scent of their sex and his warm skin. Minutes pass before, tentative, Illya asks, “Why did you want that?”

Gaby’s instinct is to tense, deflect, but her body is too relaxed. What has she to be embarrassed of now? “I felt — I knew I was wrong.” Her hand comes up to rest over where she is full and content, where the hollow ached at her. “I needed something — oh, honest, I suppose. I was too angry to admit what I did. And you were so cold.”

Wrapping tighter around her, Illya peppers her crown with kisses.

Confession is so much easier when she’s already been forgiven. She murmurs, earnest, “I was wrong. But don’t lie to me, Illya. Or for me. Let me learn. Stop locking me up in cars and hotel rooms when things get messy. Train me." His mutters of consent, apology giving her strength, she manages, "And if you’re angry, for God’s sake, don’t leave me.” Smothered by strong arms and tender touches, she still has enough energy to smirk. “I can take it.”

Illya hums in the affirmative, so low it’s more of a growl, giving Gaby the distinct feeling that this is the first but not the only time she puts herself over his knee.

For now, she sighs and acquiesces bonelessly as Illya carries her to the bathroom and takes over the task of washing them both with warm water. Scrubbed clean and wrapped naked in a fluffy towel, she returns the airy kisses and chaste petting that drove her mad earlier.

With mock-sternness, Illya asks, “Now may I take you to bed?” He gives her sleep-drooped nod a lopsided smile before lifting her again, towel unraveling on the floor.

Catching their reflection in the mirror, she makes him stop so she can admire the redness coloring her bottom, some of the marks the exact shape of the fingers resting so lightly on her back. Gentleness and violence — good partners to her own gradient of soft to sharp, Gaby has reason to hope.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for [gallyakink](http://gallyakink.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr! The blog is a place for anyone to post and fill gallya (or ot3/multi) prompts with mature or otherwise 'kink' themes. It would be amazing to see the talented ao3 authors join in! You don't need a tumblr account to submit to the blog and you can even do so anonymously ([information here](http://gallyakink.tumblr.com/rules))! There's also an [ao3 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/gallya_kink) open for anyone to add their past gallya kink fics. There are some intriguing [prompts](http://gallyakink.tumblr.com/prompts) on the sticky page, so check them out to see if you get inspired and add your own if you want!


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